


The Snow Garden

by bbcherrytomato



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-09-24 15:34:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20360893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcherrytomato/pseuds/bbcherrytomato
Summary: Hermione Granger, seeking to escape her career frustrations and failed relationships eagerly accepts a seemingly run-of-the-mill, out-of-town assignment. What she finds instead is a deep connection to a mysterious man and a place that holds unimaginable secrets to her past.





	1. The Snow Garden Aesthetic

**Author's Note:**

> My assigned fairy tale is "The Happy Prince." It's a beautiful but unusual story and I wanted to keep as close to it as possible. Dramione will be a bit OOC here, especially since Hogwarts is non-existent in this universe and the two are not exactly wielders of Magic, so fair warning. :)


	2. Dragon's End

Dragon’s End was not a place anyone would dream of visiting. For one thing, this tiny, sleepy village on the outskirts of Wiltshire was not easy to find on a map. It was often overlooked in favor of the more famous Stonehenge, which was just (pardon the pun) a stone’s throw away from it. Also, nothing exciting ever happened in Dragon’s End. In fact, as far as the villagers were concerned, the most interesting thing to ever happen in that place was a bread shortage. When Bart, the baker, ran off with Millie, the miller’s daughter, the villagers had to go without bread for almost a fortnight, which was a real tragedy because their stews only came to life when partnered with Bart’s delicious bread. Thankfully, Millie’s father found the two and was able to persuade them to return to the village before the people gave rioting in the dusty streets any serious thought.  


That was a hundred years ago. Today, Dragon’s End was as quiet as a snoring mouse. But that precisely was what Hermione Granger needed - a peaceful and quiet place where her overwrought mind could relax. A struggling author and part-time photo-journalist based in London, she longed to escape the hustle and bustle of city life more than she cared to admit. When her editor suggested to make her assignment on Stonehenge a working vacation, Hermione didn’t balk. She grabbed her bags and rode the train to Salisbury first thing in the morning. Upon arriving, she rented a car and purchased a map, where the tiny scrawled words ‘Dragon’s End’ pulled at her. Curiously, no one in the car rental office seemed to know the exact location (or even the existence) of the place. Undeterred, Hermione took the keys from the bewildered attendant and backed out of the parking lot, map in hand, fingers crossed. She had traversed wetlands and tundra in foreign lands alone, she would find an obscure village in her own homeland, for heaven’s sake.  


And indeed she did. After two hours of non-stop driving, she swung into a dirt road that led to a modest village square. Stepping out of the car, Hermione felt like she had been transported into another time. She looked around in awe, amazed at how the residents were able to preserve the rustic charm of their village. At the center of the plaza, raised on a faded brick dais, was a bronze statue of a man astride a dragon, green ivy climbing up to cover most of its body. It appeared to be suffering from neglect, which strangely saddened her. She didn’t believe in Dragons or Magic in general, but she believed in the human mind’s unlimited and wondrous imagination. The villagers appeared to have had lots of it. Why else would they enshrine a mythical creature in a known place of honor, if not to glorify some ancient folk tale? Perhaps the story-teller was one of the founders of this place, possibly a Lord or Lady generations before had esteemed. However, the statue’s current state showed this was no longer the case. Whatever affection the people held for this statue and all it stood for had been long gone. Still, there could be an interesting story behind it, one that would make a good addition to her growing compilation of long-forgotten folk tales, the subject of her next book.  


Behind the statue were five structures whose design harkened to medieval times. There were square wooden signage hanging from the eaves of each, the symbols painted on them the only clue to the nature of their business. Most prominent was the bakery, which also appeared to be the local merchandiser. To its right was a barber shop and a small chapel with an aging belfry. To its left sat a library and a music store with white musical notes adorning its red door. Yet, there were no indication of a B&B or an inn. Bare, wooden kiosks huddled behind the statue served as lonely sentinels to what could’ve been a busy marketplace. The vendors had obviously packed up early due to the sudden thunderstorm. The ground was already filled with muddy potholes and even though the storm had abated, the sky was nevertheless dark and heavy. No self-respecting trader would risk exposing their produce to this kind of weather. Still, the smell of freshly baked rolls lingered in the air, making her mouth water. She hadn’t eaten since she’d left London and her stomach was already protesting. A hot meal would be very welcome at this point, so she decided to visit the bakery. Hopefully, she would also find someone who could offer her lodging for the night. She didn’t want to drive all the way back to Sterling, but she didn’t want to sleep in the car either. She would pay handsomely for a warm bed and a fluffy comforter.  


“Keep your fingers crossed, Hermione. Pray that some kind-hearted soul would take pity on you and take you in. Be your charming self, please? You don’t want to freeze your arse out here, do you?” she admonished herself as she gingerly walked to the bakery.  


It wouldn’t do to break her neck on this icy path and scandalize the villagers with her dead body in the morning. On the other hand, such an incident would definitely put this paradise of tranquility on everyone’s horror map. Her publisher would make sure of it. Tiptoeing up the steps, Hermione sighed in relief when she reached the top unharmed. The village would remain incognito, after all. When she pushed the door open, tiny bells tinkled overhead, lending a bit of cheer to the otherwise gloomy atmosphere.  


The store itself was a revelation. Not only because it looked like one of those cozy homes from her Fairy Tale books, but more so because it didn’t just offer bread (as evidenced by the various baked goodies spread out on trays sitting on the counter). It also had real, full-fledged food. And today’s special was Beef stew with black bread and pudding. Hermione’s stomach growled loudly. Disgracefully, too, because as it turned out, she wasn’t alone. A portly, white-haired woman popped up from behind the counter and beamed at her.  


“Well, hello, dearie. What can I do for ye today?” she asked in a cheerful voice. .  


“Oh, I was wondering if your special is still available?”  


“Of course it is, dearie. Me Wilfred made a ‘uge batch today. Would ye like a spot of tea while ye wait?”  


“That would be great, thanks,” Hermione said with a sigh. A hot cup of tea would settle her stomach and prepare it for proper nourishment.  


“Just take a seat there, dearie. I’ll tell Emma to bring ye a pot while I ready yer meal.”  


Hermione nodded and walked over to one of the four, small tables. Each set had only two chairs. Cozy and romantic. Just as she was getting settled, a young woman who resembled the white-haired lady came to her table with a tray. The tea set, including the sugar bowl and creamer, were all exquisite bone china, which was unexpected in an establishment as simple and homey as this.  


“Hello, Miss. I’m Emma. Please be careful, the tea is hot,” she said, smiling.  


“Thanks, Emma. I’ll keep that in mind.”  


“Would you like me to pour?” Emma asked, eyes bright and eager.  


Hermione wanted to say no, she could do it herself, but something told her that Emma would be offended if she did. “I would appreciate that, Emma.”  


“My pleasure, Miss. Sugar or Milk? Both?”  


“Both, please,” Hermione said as she watched Emma prepare her drink with such delicate and graceful movements it almost looked like a dance.  


“We don’t get many visitors here, you see. Not very many people know we’re even here, I think. Besides, after they marvel at the mysteries of Stonehenge, who would want to visit our poor, boring village, right?” Emma chuckled bitterly.  


“I don’t think it’s boring, Emma. I’m truly amazed at how you were able to preserve the rustic beauty of your village, how its untainted by technology—”  


“Not if the other residents get their way,” Emma said, sitting on the chair across Hermione, eyes blazing with passion. “Some of them are actually petitioning for more modern conveniences like electric heaters....and phone lines―”  


“What do you mean? There’s no phone service here?” Hermione said, carefully sipping her tea. It was heavenly!  


“Oh, there is a public phone outside the library. What they want is to have individual phones. A phone in every house, is their battle cry. I think it’s preposterous. Why would I use a telephone to talk to someone when I could just walk over to their house and have a proper conversation over a hot cup of tea, eh? And why have an electric heater when a good, crackling fire is cozier? I really can’t understand—”  


“Forgive me gran’daughter, dearie. She’s quite fanatic about the old ways,” the white-haired woman said as she laid down a steaming bowl of stew and a chunk of black bread before Hermione. “Emma, won’t ye be a dear and get our guest some puddin’. My back is hurtin’ like mad again.”  


“Sure, grandma. You just get some rest here,” Emma said, guiding the older woman to the chair she just vacated. “Excuse me, Miss—”  
Hermione put down her cup and extended a hand to Emma. “Please, just call me Hermione. I have a feeling we’re going to be good friends.”  
Emma’s face lit up and gave Hermione a thumbs up before bolting out of the room.  


“That’s very kind of ye, dearie. She doesn’t have many friends. Me name’s Martha, in case yer wonderin’,” Martha winked.  


“Nice to meet you, Martha,” Hermione smiled. She wasn’t really a jolly person, but somehow these people made her feel light and bubbly. “What I’ve been wondering about actually, was where I might find an inn? This trip was a bit last minute so I wasn’t able to make arrangements for my lodging.”  


“Well, yer in luck, dearie. This be here the only lodging ye’ll find in Dragon’s End. We ‘ave five rooms upstairs, two fer family and three fer guests. Ye can ‘ave yer pick.”  


“Oh, thank you so much! You just solved my biggest problem. I’ll bring up my things from the car later. I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying, though. Is that okay?”  


“Of course, dearie. We don’t get many guests around ‘ere anyway. Especially during this time o’ year. Ye can stay fer as long as ye like.”  


“Did I hear you right, grandma? Hermione’s staying with us?” Emma blurted as she stumbled back into the room, a plate of pudding jiggling precariously in her hands. It was a miracle it landed on the table in one piece.  


“Yes, dearie. But don’t be botherin’ ‘er so much, mind ye. I forgot to ask, are ye ‘ere fer work or fer pleasure, ‘ermione?”  


“Mostly work, I’m afraid. I’m to take pictures of Stonehenge for my new book. I’d also like to explore the village and take some pictures of the surrounding―”  


“Don’t go into the forest!” Emma exclaimed, her face as white as snow.  


“Emma,” Martha said, brows puckering. Hermione detected a note of warning in her tone. “Don’t go scaring Miss ‘ermione, now. They’re just stories, ye know.”  


“I’m not! And they’re not just stories, Gran,” Emma disagreed.  


“What stories?” Hermione said, her curiosity piqued. Instead of answering, Martha rose to her feet and turned to her granddaughter.  


“Come on, Emma. Let’s leave Miss ‘ermione to ‘er meal. Go see if yer father needs ‘elp in the back. Go. Now!” she said, pushing a protesting Emma out of the room.  


Now, more than ever, Hermione was determined to find out what those stories were all about. But first, she must visit this ‘forbidden’ forest that scared Emma so much. It was getting dark outside, but that’s why people had flashlights.  


And she had a very nice one in the trunk of her rented car.


	3. A Stranger with Stormy, Gray Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione finds herself in a beautiful snow garden where she meets a mysterious stranger with stormy, gray eyes.

Stubborn as a mule, that’s how her ex-boyfriend, Ron, used to describe her. She always resented that, but at this moment, Hermione had to agree. Who in their right mind would venture out in a storm, after all? And after being warned to stay away from an allegedly dangerous forest, to boot? Now, she feared she was hopelessly lost, too.

“Whoever said you were in your right mind, anyway, Hermione?” she muttered as she trudged down the muddy slope. “It wasn’t even raining when I left, okay? The sky was cloudy, yes, but it wasn’t raining! Where did all this water come from, for god’s sake? Ugh!” she gasped when she lost footing and fell on her bum, arms flailing, fingers grasping at the sparse weeds sprouting on the ground. Too bad they were too frail to hold her weight. She was slipping fast and fighting her downward trajectory might even cause injury. She could end up with a sprained arm or pulled shoulder muscle, which would be painful as hell. Resigned to her fate, Hermione closed her eyes and gave in to gravity’s pull, arms tucked around her knees, lips uttering a silent prayer. What met her at the bottom, however, wasn’t what she had been expecting. 

Instead of the pool of mud she had pictured to find, her feet (and bottom) landed on soft, and surprisingly, dry grass. Light filtered through the canopy of trees, showing her that she was in a small grove. It wasn’t as dense as the forest, but the trees here were taller, with thicker bodies covered almost half-way by moss and ivy. Some had gnarly branches sweeping the ground, while others were so ancient they seemed to droop from exhaustion. Spying the faint outline of a footpath, Hermione brushed off the dirt from her muddied clothes (like that would make any difference) and slowly rose to her feet. There was no wind, no rain, and no sound of any kind, only eerie silence. It made her uneasy, yet she walked towards the path, her damnable curiosity winning out. 

“You really do give new meaning to the phrase ‘curiosity killed the cat’. Actually, I think it should be changed to ‘curiosity killed Hermione Granger’,” she said in her best impression of her ex-boyfriend’s tone. 

“Really, Ron? I believe it should be changed to ‘Lack of curiosity killed Ron Weasley’s relationship with Hermione Granger,” she retorted with a laugh. 

“Actually, Hermione. Your lack of curiosity for me killed our relationship.” 

“There wasn’t much to be curious about, Won-won. Go back to your slutty fangirl. She’s the only one stupid enough to pant after your jock shorts!” Had there been anyone around, they would’ve thought her crazy. People didn’t normally talk to themselves, did they? Well, technically, she wasn’t really talking to herself. She was talking to her imaginary ex-boyfriend. Not that he was just an imaginary boyfriend (to her infinite consternation). He was very real. Too real, in fact, that he almost ruined her life. 

“Ah! Get out of my head, you stupid, shallow, narcissistic arsehole!” Hermione growled, pushing imaginary Ron back into the dark recesses of her mind. She really must stop torturing herself about him. She made a mistake, that’s all. Nothing more. 

“Nothing more? Really? Then why did you get drunk and sleep outside my door the night I announced my engagement to Lavender?” 

“As you said, I was drunk. And mad! You made me look like an idiot, idiot!” 

“Admit it, you loved me.” 

“Shut up, Ronald!” she snapped. 

“Who’s Ronald?” 

Hermione’s head whipped around, looking for the source of the deep voice. She gasped when she found herself inside a beautiful, well-manicured garden instead of the grove. At the center of it, surrounded by hundreds of red and white roses, was an immaculately white marble fountain. And it was snowing! How could the weather have changed that fast in this area? 

A snow garden and a fountain. In the middle of the forest? Could this be any weirder? But where’s the man who spoke? She thought, glancing about. And there he was, standing beside a stone bench. He was a tall man with platinum blonde hair and ivory skin so pale Hermione wondered if he was also made of marble. Around his wide shoulders was a thick, black cloak with an ornate silver and green clasp that somehow looked familiar. He was an imposing figure, but it was his stormy gray eyes that made Hermione catch her breath. They were staring at her with an intensity she had never seen before. 

“No one,” she said, absently twisting the cord of the useless flashlight (it didn’t have any batteries) hanging around her neck to contain her embarrassment. It was bad enough that she was arguing with imaginary Ron again, but to be caught doing it was much worse. 

The stranger looked at her with amusement, embarrassing her further. 

_Did he hear everything? Gods! I hope not!_

“If you say so, my lady,” the stranger said. 

“My lady? Aren’t we a tad too formal?” she said, smirking. Somehow, despite her situation, she didn’t fear this man. 

The stranger smiled. “One can never be too formal in the presence of such a fine lady.” 

Hermione’s cheeks flamed. She didn’t know how to respond. Was he making fun of her or just being polite? She couldn’t tell because she wasn’t used to being complimented by a member of the male species—one of the attributes of her failed relationship with Ron. In the end, she chose to ignore the stranger’s comment and focused instead on her surroundings. 

“This is amazing. Are we still in Dragon’s End?” she asked. 

The stranger looked at her curiously. “Dragon’s End? Do you mean the village?” 

“Yes, of course. I’m not sure how far I’ve walked. It was raining hard in the forest, but when I...walked into the grove (she didn’t want to say ‘fell’), the ground was dry, like it hadn’t rained at all, and it’s snowing here, so I was wondering if I had gone past the boundaries of Dragon’s End.” 

It took a moment for the man to reply, but when he did there was a strange sadness in his eyes. “Yes, we are still in..Dragon’s End.” 

Hermione nodded, wondering why she felt drawn to him. “My name’s Hermione, by the way,” she said, walking over to the stranger, hand extended for a handshake. 

The stranger took her hand, but instead of shaking it, he planted a feather-soft kiss on her knuckles. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Lady Hermione,” he said. 

Hermione couldn’t say if it was the kiss that made her shiver or the wet clothes clinging to her body. The stranger seemed to think the latter. 

“You’re shivering, my lady. Permit me,” he said and, in one swift motion, before Hermione could even think of protesting, he unclasped his thick cloak and threw it around her shaking shoulders. 

The smell of pine and leather enveloped her, masculine scents that she’d always found comforting for some unknown reason. It made the warmth provided by the cloak even more appreciated. When she looked up to thank the stranger, he was looking down at her with such longing it made her heart race. 

“Is it you?” he asked in a breathless whisper. 

Had the garden not been as quiet as the grave, Hermione would’ve missed the words. What did he mean by that? Was he waiting for someone? Someone whose face he didn’t even know? Before she could voice her questions, the man stepped back and bowed his head. 

“Forgive me, my Lady. I didn’t mean to cause you discomfort.” 

“Oh, no! You didn’t discomfort me. I mean, I don’t mind. I mean...oh, hell. I don’t mean anything. Just ignore everything I say.” 

_What is wrong with you? Why are you blabbering like a fool?_

“Would you like to sit, my Lady?” he asked, gesturing to the stone bench. Hermione nodded, grateful to have somewhere to rest her aching body. That brief tumble down the hill had made her sore. She nodded and sat down with a sigh. The man remained standing. 

“Aren’t you going to sit, too?” she asked, looking up at him. 

He hesitated, but when Hermione patted the space beside her, he complied with a shy smile. He looked away and stared at the roses, but his gaze easily returned to Hermione when she coughed and cleared her throat. 

“Are you feeling ill, Lady Hermione?” he asked, concern furrowing his brow. 

With a lazy wave of her hand, she said, “I’m fine, but please, just call me Hermione. I really am no Lady.” The amused sparkle in the blonde’s eyes made her realize how wrong that last one came out. Fortunately, he was too much of a gentleman to comment on it. She decided to change the subject. “You haven’t told me your name, good sir.” 

Again, he hesitated. “My friends call me Drake,” he said eventually. 

“May _I_ call you Drake?” 

He laughed. “Of course you may, Lady—I mean, Hermione. You may call me Drake.” 

“Thank you, kind sir,” she said, bowing her head. Drake smiled. Her heart melted. 

_Damn it, Hermione! Stop swooning over someone you just met! _

_I’m not swooning! _

_Yes, you are because you think he’s cute. _

_Of course I think he’s cute! Don’t you?_

It took her a moment to realize that Drake had just asked her a question. “I’m so sorry, did you say something?” 

“It’s alright. I asked if you’re staying in the village.” 

“Yes, I am. I’m staying at Martha’s place. Do you know her?” 

“I know them all,” he said, smiling his sad smile again. 

“Do you live there, too?” 

Drake turned away and went back to staring at the roses. “No.” 

The briefest of answers, but it conveyed a sorrow that pierced Hermione’s heart. The silence between them stretched for many minutes before Hermione plucked up the courage to touch Drake’s arm and pull him back from his reverie. 

“Drake? Did I say something wrong?” He felt cold. She should return his cloak. 

She was about to shrug the cloak off when Drake glanced back at her and made her stop her fumbling. His eyes were so dark with emotion they were almost black. Grief? Anger? Terror? Most likely a combination of all three. One thing’s for sure, Drake’s feelings regarding Dragon’s End ran deeper than she could comprehend. 

“I apologize, Hermione. A long time has passed since I have mingled with the villagers.” 

_Mingled with the villagers? Why did that sound so strange?_

“What do you mean?” 

Drake sighed and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His voice was strained when he spoke. “A long time ago, my family owned a whole stretch of land here, including the village. We used to bring food and clothes to the villagers in preparation for winter. But...something unspeakable happened. After that, my family thought it best to cut all ties with them and stay here, away from trouble.” 

“But you miss going there, do you? You miss the people?” 

Drake nodded, smiling briefly. “Yes. I know of their problems and my most fervent wish is to help them in any way possible.” 

“So why don’t you?” 

“It’s not that simple. Suffice it to say that in the present state of affairs, I cannot.” 

Hermione could tell that there was more to that story than Drake was telling, but for fear of coming across as a meddlesome shrew, she decided not to pursue it. She was about to ask Drake more about the place when the loud clanging of church bells startled her. 

“What’s that?” she asked, turning to Drake. 

“I believe it’s time for Vespers.” 

“Time for what?” 

“Vespers. Evening prayers,” Drake replied. “In olden times, the church rings the bell to remind the villagers to return to their homes because night has fallen. I believe you should head back, too. The night isn’t too friendly in this part of town.” 

“I didn’t realize the chapel bells in the village would reach this far,” she said, taking the hand that Drake had offered to help her to her feet. 

“Come, I’ll show you a quicker way to get to the village. You don’t want to pass through the Forbidden Forest at this time of night,” Drake said as he walked towards a small trellised path nestled between two, tall hedges. 

“Wow! Why didn’t I see that there before?” she said, following Drake through it. 

“You were distracted by the snow.” 

“That’s another thing. Why is it snowing in the garden, but not in the forest?” 

“It had stopped snowing, didn’t you notice?” 

And indeed it had! How could she not have noticed that either? What was wrong with her? Why was this place— 

“Here we are. I’m afraid this is as far as I can take you. Just go through that gate at the end and you’ll see a stone pathway that leads to the village square. Don’t be afraid, it’s quite safe,” Drake said, stepping to the side to let her pass. 

“I didn’t know how close this garden was to the village. I must have really gotten lost in the forest,” she exclaimed. 

“No one but me knows about this path. It’s hidden from the villager’s eyes.” 

“Will I find it again?” She really didn’t want to take the long way again. 

“Will you be returning?” Drake looked hopeful. 

But even if he wasn’t, Hermione was sure that she would be coming back to the garden. She still had too many questions bubbling inside her. 

“If you would permit me,” she replied. 

Drake’s eyes were solemn when he reached for her hand. Hermione expected him to kiss her knuckles again and was a bit disappointed when he didn’t. Instead, he turned it over and placed a small, golden compass onto her palm. “You will need this to find this place again. I shall eagerly await your return, my lady,” he said. 

This time, to Hermione’s unfathomable bliss, he kissed her hand.


	4. A Question of Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione finds herself surprisingly drawn to Drake, even to the point of putting her unquestioning trust in him.

The bakery was abuzz with activity when Hermione went down for breakfast the next day. Emma was busy behind the counter putting their customers’ orders inside charming paper bags while Martha attended to the cash register. The older woman waved at Hermione and pointed at the empty table with a ‘Reserved’ sign on it. Hermione waved back and mouthed a silent ‘thanks’ to her host as she made her way to it. The table beside hers was occupied by a couple who looked about Martha’s age. They looked up from their meal and greeted Hermione with a pleasant ‘Good morning’, which was something she rarely experienced in the city. She smiled and greeted them back before settling down to her breakfast of hot tea, eggs, and toast. It was a far cry from the traditional set being served here, as Emma told her, but this was the kind of breakfast she was used to.

She was also used to planning her day while she ate and saw no reason to not do the same here. Taking the corner seat, she shrugged off her backpack and placed it on the table. She flipped the flap open and slid her hand inside, fishing for her trusty planner. Instead, her fingers wrapped around something cold and metallic. It was the compass Drake had given her. Smiling, she traced the intricate detailing on its lid as memories of their brief encounter flashed in her mind’s eye. She had planned to ask Emma or Martha about the grove and the snow garden, but when she saw the two during dinner she couldn’t bring herself to do so. There was a small part of her that didn’t want to share her knowledge of that special place with them. The writer in her was clamoring for information and her hosts would’ve been the best source for it. Still, there was that nagging feeling that she would be betraying Drake if she asked them about the garden. What would he be doing right now? Would he be in the garden this early? 

Suddenly, she was overwhelmed by a desire to go back to the garden—to Drake. It baffled her, but she chalked it up to her insatiable curiosity. Hermione Granger was a hound and once she got a whiff of a good story, she would never let go. She would pursue it, seize it, shake it, and dissect it until its innards were exposed. Drake and his snow garden were just that—a damn good story in the making. Or at least that’s what she’d like to think because anything other than that was unthinkable. It could never be about what she felt when she looked into Drake’s stormy eyes or when he kissed her hand, or when he told her that he would be waiting for her return. It could never be about her feelings. She told stories about other people, not about herself. Pocketing the compass, Hermione dug into her meal and strove to drive Drake and the garden from her mind. She had been given an assignment and she would do it. 

“Stonehenge, here I come,” she whispered to herself. 

Fate, however, had something else in mind. 

When she left Matha’s bakery, she had every intention of going to Stonehenge. But before she could even get to her car a persistent vibration inside her pocket distracted her. She took the compass out and was surprised to see its needle spinning wildly. When it stopped, it was pointing towards a clump of trees at the edge of the village square. Drake had said that the compass would show her the way back and this was probably how. 

_Hermione, this is not the way to your car. _

_I know! I just want to see if the compass would really lead me back to the garden. _

_Oh, really? You’re just curious, then? _

_Yes, of course! Now, will you please shut up!_

I really must stop talking to myself, she mused as she stepped over a bush with the compass held before her, its needle still in the same position. She continued walking until she reached a wall of thick ivy. Instinctively, Hermione lifted the compass and pressed it against the wall of ivy. It parted in the middle to reveal a glass door that swung open, granting her entrance. It was the same trellised stone path she took last night, the one that Drake had shown her. Why she didn’t find a door opening by itself strange, she would never know. All she knew was the anticipation flooding her veins and hastening her steps. As she neared the center, the melancholic tones of a violin washed over her, wrenching her heart with its pain. She paused when she saw its source—Drake. He was sitting on the stone bench, his long fingers gracefully dancing on the strings of a beautiful violin. If she only had the power, Hermione would have stopped the world from spinning. She would have stopped time and lived in this moment. Drake looked so perfect in this pose, in this setting, she couldn’t bring herself to intrude. Beneath his furrowed brows, Drake’s eyes were tightly closed as if hell-bent on keeping the world at bay. Snow was slowly drifting from above, powdering his hair and shoulders, but Drake didn’t seem to mind. Guilt sliced Hermione’s gut. She’d forgotten to bring Drake’s coat! 

_Well, considering that I hadn’t actually planned on coming here this early, I couldn’t really be blamed for not having it with me right now, could—_

“You came back,” Drake’s deep voice broke into her internal monologue. His eyes were blazing with something that made Hermione warm all over. Ron, damn his black soul to hell, never once looked at her with such intensity. 

“Hi, Drake,” she said, silently praying as she walked towards Drake that her cheeks weren’t betraying her. They were so hot, she feared they would be as red as the roses in the garden. “I, uhm, I hope I’m not disturbing you.” 

Drake set the violin aside and rose to his feet. “Forgive me, my lady. I must appear like a barbarian for not greeting you properly,” he said, bowing his head. 

“Oh, gods! No! Please, don’t treat me special. I really am not deserving of it. And just call me Hermione, Drake. I really am—” 

“No lady?” Drake finished for her, his eyes twinkling mischievously. 

Hermione laughed. It was nice to see the less serious side of this utterly proper gentleman. “You’re absolutely right, my dear sir.” 

This time it was Drake who laughed. Hermione’s legs quivered at its sensual timbre. 

“If I am to refrain from calling you ‘my lady’, you also must stop calling me ‘sir’. Although, the term ‘dear’ is most welcome. I do prefer to hear you say ‘dear Drake’, instead of dear sir.” 

Hermione’s heart flipped at the subtle teasing. It’s been so long since someone had flirted with her. Inexperienced or not, she understood Drake’s meaning. Strangely, she didn’t find it offensive. In fact, she found it extremely flattering. And arousing. 

_Oh, gods, Hermione! Don’t go there! You hardly know the bloke!_

Clearing her throat, Hermione turned her attention to the violin sitting on the stone bench. “That is a beautiful instrument you have there,” she said, striding over to it. 

“A gift from my father. According to him, it was made by a master luthier named Antonio Stradivarius. One of his most magnificent creations apparently. I never had the pleasure of seeing his other instruments, however, so I wouldn’t really be able to tell. But since my father traded a pair of his beloved destriers for it, Stradivari must really be good.” 

Although Hermione wasn’t well acquainted with musical instruments, she was still aware of the value, historically and intrinsically, of a Stradivarius violin. She had once been assigned to cover a high profile auction where one had been sold to the tune of £1.5M. No one would trade even the worst of Stradivari’s violins for a pair of horses, whatever breed they may be. 

“I think your father came away with the better end of the deal,” she said, sitting beside the violin. She wanted to run her fingers over its glistening body but feared it might offend Drake. Musicians often considered their instruments an extension of themselves. 

“Not quite how he put it. His horses were his pride and joy,” Drake said, taking the other end of the bench with a deep sigh. 

“_Were?_What happened to them?” 

“They’re all gone. It was a long time ago.” 

Hermione got the impression that he wasn’t talking about the horses. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said. Drake nodded, his sad smile pulling at Hermione’s heartstrings. Why was she so affected by this man? 

“Thank you for saying that, Hermione. But let us leave all this sadness behind us for now. There is something I’ve been meaning to show you,” he said, rising to his feet. 

“What is it?” Hermione said as she took Drake’s hand. 

“Something as lovely as you, my dear lady,” he said, eyes twinkling mischievously. 

Hermione’s heart was beating like a congo drum inside her chest, she was sure Drake could hear its frantic rhythm. But the man in front of her seemed more intent on the path that had magically opened before them. 

What are you doing, Hermione? Why are you following a man you only met yesterday into places unknown? What if he’s a psychotic killer? 

True. Drake could be a charming but dangerous serial killer bent on slaughtering her in the middle of the forest. Still, deep inside her, she sensed he was a good man. And for someone who found difficulty in trusting men (after Ron, anyway), that was, indeed, a big leap of faith. 

“Here we are,” Drake said, gently pulling her beside him. 

They were standing on the edge of an enchanting, small pond. A couple of white swans were gliding on its placid surface, gracefully dancing around the pink lilies floating around them, while colorful butterflies flitted amongst the poppies and daffodils lining the edges. Huge stepping stones that ran across the entire width of the pond gave the only access to the other side, which seemed to beckon to her. It was an idyllic place, one that belonged inside the pages of a fairy tale book. One thing that stood out about the other side, though, was the absence of snow. It looked like a garden in full spring bloom. 

“It’s lovely, Drake,” she said, turning to Drake. 

“No more than you,” Drake said, smiling down at her. “Would you like to cross to the other side with me?” 

“What’s on the other side?” 

“My house.” 

“You live in paradise?” 

Drake’s laughter sent another set of delicious shivers down her spine. 

_Oh, gods! This man is killing me. _

_Shit, Hermione! Keep your legs together! _

_Shut up, prude!_

“How could it be paradise when you’re not there?” 

Now, what could she say to that? 

_Marry me? _

__

__

_Damn it, Hermione! _

__

__

_Okay! Okay! I’ll behave, promise!_

“Some other time, maybe. I’d really like to hear you play again. Another song, perhaps?,” she said, silently cursing her damnable inner voice. 

“Of course, my lady. I live for your pleasure,” Drake said as he took her hand and led her back down the path. 

_He’s disappointed! He wanted me to go with him to his house… _

_Maybe because he was planning on raping and murdering you after. _

_Don’t be absurd! He won’t rape me. _

_Only because you’d welcome him with open arms and legs! _

_Well… _

_Slut. _

_Shut up! You sound just like Ron!_

They reached the snow garden in silence. Hermione couldn’t bring herself to say anything knowing that she had upset Drake. Her refusal must have proven to him that she didn’t trust him, was perhaps even afraid of him. Would he take it against her? Was he the kind of person who got slighted easily? Would he lead her out of the garden and order her to never return? His reticence could be her answer. Yet, when Drake guided her to the bench, there was no malice in his eyes. His smile was as gentle and heart-melting as usual. 

Drake ended up playing not only one, but three songs. The first two were brisk and energetic, full of life and high spirits. But it was the last that got to her. It was soft and sensual, caressing the very fibers of her being. Hermione didn’t even realize that she was already on her feet, swaying to the music with her eyes closed until the last note faded and she felt Drake’s hands wrapping around hers. Embarrassment flooded her, but Drake’s blazing eyes told her that he had been affected by that last one, too. 

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking—” 

“You’re a lovely dancer, Hermione,” he said, lifting Hermione’s hands to his lips. 

Drake’s fingers were ice-cold, but his lips were as warm as the sun. Pleasure washed over Hermione. “You’re much too kind, Sir Drake. I am at best a mediocre dancer,” she paused when Drake’s fingers tightened around hers, his stormy-gray eyes boring into her brown ones. “Did I say something wrong?” He continued to stare at her like he was trying to read her mind. Then, he blinked and looked away. He let go of her hands and stepped back. “No, of course not. I was just reminded of something...from the distant past,” he said, sadly turning on his heels. After a short beat, he walked back to her, a brilliant smile gracing his lips. 

“I have another surprise for you.” 

“You do? What is it?” Hermione blurted despite her bafflement. She had actually been wondering how Drake’s emotions could shift from one end of the spectrum to the other so swiftly. It was almost mercurial. 

As a reply, Drake again extended a hand to her and said, “Come with me?” 

She recognized the underlying question, the unspoken plea. Drake wanted to know if he had her trust. He did. Because maybe, for the first time in her life, Hermione Granger was tired of playing safe, tired of being her boring self. It was time she took some risks, time she became interesting and exciting. Ignoring the tiny voice urging caution insider her head, Hermione took Drake’s hand and surrendered herself to whatever fate awaited them. 

Little did she know that with each step, she was already sealing hers.


End file.
